Is It My Body?

So where was 'my' Luke, as I had called him much to the delight of the 'girls' (for girls read women of an average age of fiftyish) at the golf club, on this issue? And more to the point where was I? Why was even thinking about it? I don't date; I've been celibate for months so, by extension I don't fuck.

But when Luke laid me on my back on a low bench, told me to open my legs and place my feet on the floor and stood between my opened legs, I imagined him slipping his gym trousers down and fucking me.

When he knelt on the bench behind my head and held both of my arms and made me pull against them, I visualised him roughly yanking my singlet up, pulling my breasts out from the, normal, not sports, bra and sinking his face between my tits.

He was wearing more aftershave, I was sure. His hair was gelled. He'd made a special effort. He was looking at me more intently as he held up the two big pads he was wearing like gloves and as I punched them.

"Yes Mandy, left, right, right, right, left, left, left," he instructed moving the pads up and down and back and forth causing me to jog around sort of chasing him and them.

It was tiring, it was an effort keeping my arms with the boxing gloves on my fists, up near shoulder height for the time he stipulated and of course as I sparred with him my tits flew all over the place.

I was wearing, for some reason, probably to flash my tits at him, a tightish, yellow singlet, similar to what women runners wear. It had a scooped front, deep cut arms and thin shoulder straps. It wasn't hard, in fact it was bloody nigh inevitable, that I easily achieved that reason. As usual, I was wearing blue hipster, gym trousers with an elasticised waist band. I wore the singlet outside the trousers so, as I moved, I flashed expanses of my waist and lower chest, well also my upper chest, both the sides of my chest, my back, my neck and shoulders and, of course my tits and cleavage. I wasn't being selective, flash it all was my motto.

Actually that isn't true. I was not really wearing that singlet, well not primarily, to flaunt my body at him. I had again got into a similar pattern to that we'd had with the coaches at the tennis camp. Our bodies then, and mine now, were almost mutual possessions. Mine was every bit as much his to fine (in my dreams) tune as it was mine. It was an inanimate object that existed outside our individual areas of focus. It was the third party in our relationship.

"Shit, Luke," I panted.

"What?" He asked moving around.

"I'll do myself an injury."

"You should wear a sports bra. for exercises like this."

It seemed so intimate to be talking about such apparel.

"Bloody unsightly things," I retorted, collapsing against him when he said.

"That's enough."

"Maybe," he said holding my hips with the two big pads, "But we have to look after all parts of our body Mands, not just the legs and arms."

I was still in his arms, if you can call being held by two big boxing pads that. Although I was naturally tired from the five minutes boxercising, I did feign it a little; after all it was nice being pressed against him.

As I lay there against him and we talked about my bra, my boobs and 'our' body, I was sure he was going to do something. What, I didn't know, and what my response would be I had no idea? After all it's one thing having a twenty something fuck your mind, but it's a totally different matter having one fuck your body; even in the third person.

Just last week he had knelt between my opened legs as I lay on my front. He had leaned forward and taken hold of my shoulders and lifted them a few inches.

"Now hold your arms out and press them backwards," he had ordered. As I did so his knee slid forward and pressed against my bum.

"Oh fuck," I thought as a surge of sexual sensation rushed through me.

"Is that ok?" He asked.

I grunted, at first thinking he meant his knee, but of course he meant the exercise.

"Yes, it's fine," I answered feeling the stretching along my spine and shoulders.

"We have to stretch it, we have to make sure this part of it is supple, we need to get more movement in it there," he was going on as if talking about someone else.

I thought for a moment of saying.

"Yes that's all well and good, but we also need to either, move that knee away or, pull my trousers, and the pretty, little thong down and fuck me." I didn't of course

We had finished the warm up exercises. He was behind me. He put his knee on my waist and held both my wrists. He pulled them away and back, bending my back and, of course, shoving my tits out. I looked in the floor to ceiling mirror, they looked huge. I caught his eye. We smiled. He took his knee away. He let my arms drop to my side. We stared at each other in the mirror. His eyes dropped, they went to my breasts, then back. I caught his glance again. I looked down to my breasts. My nipples had, most obviously, hardened. We both looked at them. Then, as he spoke my mind again was taken back to those tennis camps.

"As I have said several times Mandy, we have to look after all of our body don't we?"

I never worked out just how it happened, what prompted me or, how I got the nerve. But I did, somehow. Yes from somewhere came the necessity, the desire, the command for me to make this extraordinary gesture.

As I muttered "Especially these Luke?" so I reached up and cupped both of my breasts in my hands.

"Yes Mandy," he said thickly, his hands joining mine as he pressed himself against my back and bum. "Especially these, they are awesome."

Still staring at each other in the mirror, I extricated my hands from beneath his and placed mine on top, so that his hands were now cupping my breasts. He caressed them; he squeezed them and rolled them together. He took one away and I felt the pressure on my bottom go away. Then his hand was back as was the pressure. But this time I also felt the length of his erection right up the crease of my bum. It felt wonderful; I squirmed against it. He kneaded my breasts, quite expertly. For some daft reason, I felt a little miffed that he was obviously very experienced at doing this. I tried to resist thinking, however, that he probably gained most of that experience from MILFs, as I understand women like me are known in some quarters, for whom he acts as a PT. I almost smiled thinking 'A PT with a MILF and her DDs.

It was wonderfully erotic, though slightly embarrassing, to have almost continual eye contact with him as he squeezed and manipulated my tits, well our tits I suppose they were now. Looking into his eyes in the mirror as he lifted and squeezed my boobs with his hands outside the singlet, I understood what people, mainly writers, mean when they talk about 'smouldering glances.' If such a glance exists, then what we do with our reflected eye contact was positively bursting into flames.

What was promoting this extreme level of sexual intensity, apart from his cock being shoved firmly right up the crease of my bum and what his hands were doing to my tits, was the mirror. It added something, no not something, it added an enormous something. It was as though I, certainly, and Luke, I believe too, were again having out of body experiences; on another level it might be described as us being voyeurs on some old biddy and her lusty young man ab out to have a fuck.

I felt comfortable with him in the mirror. It was different, it was exciting, it added a dimension to us, my body and to what we were doing. He once more lifted my breasts up and, flicking the thick strands of my chestnut coloured hair which had fallen from the rolled up mass on top of my head, he kissed my neck. We maintained eye contact as he licked the back of my neck. That made me feel bold and adventurous, I wanted him to take me further, I wanted more.

I lifted my hands, and rested them on my shoulders, right near the joints; my right hand was on my left shoulder my left hand on my right. Staring deeply into his eyes, I slowly eased the narrow straps off my shoulders and rolled the thin yellow material down my body. He moved his hands from my breasts, so that I could ease the singlet past those and let it bunch round my waist; we could attend to that later, I thought as his hands returned to my boobs in the white, lacy, see-through, normal not sports bra. The strap had fallen from my right shoulder, loosening the cup a little. That made it easier for Luke to slide his hand inside it, right onto my breast.

I squirmed one of my hands behind me and between us. I found the gorgeous outline of his erection inside his trousers. Yes it was as stunningly hard as a young man should be, I was relieved and pleased to find.

The first time a new lover touches the bare flesh of a woman's breast, really is lovely. When Luke wiggled his fingers into the slightly too small for my, at the time, well it was just after Christmas and a weight on period, double D plumpies, was no exception. I grunted and a little moan slipped from my mouth as his finger and thumb found my achingly erect nipple while his eyes bored into mine in the mirror.

As lovely as it is having a new lover touch the bare flesh of your breasts, it is equally so when your hand finds his naked cock for the first time. As I manoeuvred my hand into his shorts, past the slightly frustrating barrier of his, what's it called, Litesome belt is it or, as most know it, jock strap, and onto his length, it was his turn to grunt, but mine to sigh with pleasure.

In the floor to ceiling mirrors almost surrounding us, I watched fascinated as he eased my boob from the tight bra. I got all those strange sensations again. It was as if I was watching a movie, as if the couple on there were actors, as if it was not my body, but that of a third party. Seeing the fullness of the creamy flesh capped by the fiercely hardened pinkness of the nipple was amazing. But then so was the feel of his fingers squeezing, pinching, kneading and cupping that breast. And so was the feel of his throbbing cock in my hand. And so was the sight of his trousers down round his knees. Whatever the hell that thong sort of thing that sportsmen wear is called, it's so fucking sexy to look at. A pouch, a wide, elastic waist band and two strips of elastic circumnavigating the tight, pert cheeks of his arse. What a sight.!!

The hand not enjoying my right tit, slid suggestively downwards. From my covered, left tit, to my waist, to my tummy, which even though I was continually breathing in, showed my lack of conscientiousness after childbirth with its regrettable slight swell. I watched it trace further. Up the swell and down. Still on the softness, but approaching the hardness of my pubis. On that hair covered bone and further to where he knew, as well as I did, that the epicenter of a woman's sexual delight lies snuggled in its pink hood. He rubbed my clit. For one so young I was impressed that he found it so easily and caressed it so well.

"Oh fuck," I groaned, rubbing his cock and moving a little. I not only wanted to play with his cock, but also needed, badly, to see it.

Again, other than that glorious sensation on my fingers and hand, it was as if that was someone else's as well. If the situation had not been so sexually heavily charged I think I might have smiled when I thought, "So now we have two plumpy DDs, my body and his cock all belonging to third parties."

But I didn't smile for Luke was pushing at the elasticated waist of my gym pants. The mirror showed them coming down following the same route his hand had taken just moments before. It showed the pretty, little, rather damp, sexy thong also being pushed down, so that my neatly trimmed pubes and glistening wetness were clearly on view.

Having now moved, so we were slightly more side on to the mirror, it also showed his cock: his slim, smooth, hot, throbbing, uncircumcised cock with the stunning hardness of youth. His cock encircled by my fingers. His cock in my hand being slowly wanked, almost without me realising I was doing that.

That mirror was providing both of us with so many amazing views, so many thrills, so many visions that did not seem to be us, but those of third parties.

It showed my right tit hanging out from my bra, my hard nipple with his fingers squeezing it, my gym trousers round my knees, my thong round my thighs and my pussy streaming with the love juices that had been pouring from it since the moment I had touched my breasts.

The mirror showed a young man and a mature woman in a complicated embrace. He was behind her. The woman's hand was holding his erection which, in turn, was pressed against the rounded softness of her full bum. The young man was holding one of her breasts with one hand and rubbing her clit with the other. Both of them were staring at each other in the mirror. Both of them were seeing themselves, the other person and the couple as other people, mirror people, not them, but third parties.

But that was not all it showed. There was more. And the more was not an inanimate object or a mirror person. No, the other reflection in the mirror was not a disparate third party, was not an imaginary object or a fantasy figure. It was not a sexual image or someone who might join the reflected couple in the sexual foreplay.The other figure staring at Amanda and Luke was Missus Mustapha, Amanda's fifty year old cleaning lady.